


The Heat Is On

by lightdarknessabalance



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s AU, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Mob, But also plenty of eventual fluff because I love them, Draco just wants to not be doing this rn, Espionage, Espionage AU, Everyone needs a drink tbh, F/M, Film Noir, Fluff and Angst, Heavy on the angst, Hermione is 100 percent done with this, Mob AU, eventual Dramione, reluctant allies to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23900446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightdarknessabalance/pseuds/lightdarknessabalance
Summary: Los Angeles, 1946. Hermione is just trying to get through each day of her life, a waitress in a no-name coffee shop. Too bad she ended up a witness to a hit. Too bad for the button man that saw her. He didn’t want to get mixed up with a dame, but then, nothing in this racket ever went the way it should.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 27
Kudos: 47





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Looking back, she supposed she should have skipped out the minute the couple had walked into the coffee shop. The whole thing just seemed off. Sure, she had seen more than a few people wander in who just seemed...edgy. Usually sauced, she figured. Working late shifts at a place that offered sober-up juice near more than a few bars and nightclubs gave her a more thorough education of liquor scents than she ever needed or probably wanted. The couple was different, though. They didn’t seem intoxicated, weren’t stumbling their way to the counter, didn’t slur their words, didn’t sneak open-mouthed kisses in between the request for coffee. In fact, they didn’t say much at all.

When Hermione offered a cheerful hello after the door chimed, all she received in response was a tight-lipped smile from the woman. They hastily made their way to the counter and the man, while requesting two coffees, black, never made eye contact with her once.

“Of course, sir,” Hermione replied, bending to retrieve two cups from the shelves beneath the counter. “Would you like a donut with those?”

The man didn’t answer. He didn’t even seem to have heard her, eyes trained on the front windows. The woman was equally occupied with the street, but she still turned and answered, “no thanks, honey.” Hermione smiled in response, and turned to pour the drinks from the urn. She was rewarded with only a few drops into the bottom of the ceramic cup. Out. It figured. That urn hadn’t done its job properly in weeks.

“I’m so sorry, folks,” she apologized, turning back to the counter, “but it looks like the last batch didn’t brew. I’ll get another started right away.” The woman nodded in response, hurriedly pulling off her gloves and beginning to knead the fabric in her hands. Hermione frowned slightly at the nervous action, but said nothing and headed for the back to fetch another bag of coffee beans. She would have to grind several more batches to get through her shift, thanks to the urn wasting what she had already prepared. She had just picked up the bag when she heard it.

Two pops, and then a third. They were breathtakingly loud, echoing painfully in her head, and for an instant her brain couldn’t even figure out what the sensation was. In the next instant, she had placed the sound as gunshots, and she immediately dropped the bag she’d been holding. It split on impact, sending coffee beans scattering across the back floor like marbles and sending a sure calling card of her presence to the outer room. Hermione dropped to the floor, hugging her knees and waiting for another pop to find her. But after a few painfully long moments, she could hear nothing at all, and decided to take a chance on peeking behind the counter.

Moving forward in a crouched position and taking care not to show her head above the counter, she looked towards the counter seats and almost vomited. Hermione had never seen a dead person but she knew without touching that the man was done for. He lay sprawled on the freshly-swept floor, a rapidly growing rotunda of blood staining his coat. His eyes were still open,  _ open _ , and staring right through her with an expression of horror preserved in death.

Hermione shut her eyes, willing the image out of her head. This was not happening, could not be happening. She gasped for breath and extended a hand towards the woman, who was slumped over the counter. Hermione could not see anyone else in the shop, so she took a chance and straightened a bit.

“Hey,” she took a step forward and almost fell over something. She looked down and found donuts strewn behind the counter, shards of glass decorating the mess. The plate must have fallen in the...whatever had happened. “Hey,” she tried again, shaking the woman’s shoulder, “are you okay?” All she received was a groan in response. She was alive, but barely holding on judging by the blood that Hermione now noticed on her back, pooling in two spots but rapidly coming together to form one stain. Two shots...but she was still alive. Hermione was about to make a dash for the phone on the wall when a hand grabbed her wrist. She half-screamed, strangled into more of a gasp, and the hand sought out hers.

“You...y...have to…” The woman was barely able to speak, each word a desperate bid for the air to form it. Her hand found Hermione’s and placed in it a folded slip of paper, spattered with blood in the corner. “You have to take...thi…” The woman’s voice was fading now, her hand slipping from Hermione’s and falling limply over her head. “G-go  _ now _ . They will nev...never stop i...if you don’t take that t...to Mi...”

Hermione’s mind was spinning. “Who won’t stop? Who is Mi...whatever you said?”

The woman lifted her head just enough to make eye contact with Hermione, her hat slipping from her hair to land on the floor by Hermione’s feet. “Voldemort.” Then her head fell, and Hermione tried again to shake her shoulder. She did not respond and Hermione was left to stare, shocked, at the paper in her clammy hand.

She had to go, needed to get out. She needed to escape, forget this ever happened. But the shop only had two entrances, front and rear. Hermione was sure going out the same door that whoever had done this undoubtedly had used could only be bad news. They could still be there, just waiting to see if anyone remained in the shop. The back door? No, it led to an alley, and who in their right mind wanted to escape a scene like this through a dark alley where it could so easily-

Her train of thought was cut off abruptly by that very same back door opening. There was no time to move and nowhere to hide if she had. Hermione was left standing directly in front of whoever had turned that knob, and he would certainly see her. A figure stepped into the shop, tall and lithesome, brim turned down on his hat, and a gun,  _ oh god a gun _ , in his hand. His eyes immediately found her, piercing her face with tortured grey. She didn’t move, didn’t dare to, and she was sure she was experiencing her last living moments.

“Well, well,” he stated almost dully, “didn’t I find a dish?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t want to promise a regular update schedule on this since so much is a complete mess in my life right now. Too much on my plate! However, I will do my best to keep up with it. I have a fair amount pre-written already so we shall see how it goes. Please review if you liked it or have constructive criticism, and thank you so much for reading! I am very much looking for a beta reader for this story right now, so please shoot me a message if you would be interested.


	2. Chapter One

The first thing Hermione became aware of was the fact that a gun, no matter how small it is in perspective, looks a sight bigger when it is pointing at you. The revolver in this man’s hand could certainly be no bigger than 14 inches or so, but all she could see was the barrel, aimed straight for her and capable of ending her time on this earth. The second thing she noticed, only because the damn barrel had moved, was that her visitor’s hand was  _ shaking _ . It was not as if Hermione had a great deal of experience dealing with...whatever he was, but she was fairly certain that he should not be shaking while he pointed a gun at her. He was the one with the deadly weapon, and she  _ should  _ be shaking, but instead she stood rooted to the spot, mesmerized by the fate in front of her.

All of these observations felt like they had taken a full minute, but it had been a mere seven seconds since the man opened the back door when he moved the revolver, with purpose this time. Hermione’s eyes closed out of instinct. She still did not move. Perhaps if she didn't look, she would never feel a thing and everything would happen with no awareness on her part. A half second later, she heard a reprise of the  _ pop _ that had echoed in her brain just a few short minutes ago. In the next second, she felt herself hit the ground, spine bouncing painfully against the floor. Her ears were ringing, sending a sensation of vibration further and further into her head until she couldn’t sense her ears’ presence at all. Her upper arm felt odd, like a vice was wrapped around it. It dissipated, and then she vaguely heard something...a voice? It sounded like a voice. Maybe that was the light at the end of the tunnel people talked about when you die, calling you. But there was no light, no tunnel, and a thought fleetingly came that such a voice really ought to be louder to guide you. Otherwise it was doing a terrible job.

Faintly, Hermione made out something through the aching tremor in her head. The voice, now unmuffled, no longer sounded like radio static.

“Get the hell out of here, doll.”

* * *

It was nearing midnight by the time Hermione made it back to her building. She had laid on the cold floor in the coffee shop for what had actually been five minutes, but felt like two hours, until she finally dared to move. It was the smell of blood assaulting her nose that had done it. The scent wafted over her face, bringing her screeching back to her current surroundings. She opened her eyes then, and found that she was completely alone - aside from the two bodies at her counter, that is. She could think of nothing else aside from getting away from this place, and she had bolted out the front door, stumbling on the way as the ache in her head stabbed with each step.

Hermione had no idea what in the hell had just happened, really, but the voice...no, the man, had said to get out of there. Since she hadn’t spent the time after that dying from a gunshot, she rather felt that doing as he said was the best option. At least for now. So she had fled, leaving the bodies, leaving the donuts and glass on the floor, leaving the unbrewed coffee. There was no one in the lobby when she wrenched the front door open, which was a blessing. Hermione was sure she would not be able to string two words together coherently without completely losing it. Making a beeline for the stairs, she dropped the front door, ignoring the thump it made as it closed. She had almost made it to her floor, two flights up, when she nearly ran head-on into someone walking downstairs. Hermione stopped with a gasp and glanced up, looking straight into the face of her friend Ginny.

“Good god, Hermione,” Ginny laughed, offering a reassuring hand to right her friend’s gait. “Where’s the party?”

“I-the…” Hermione attempted a half-smile, schooling her features into something resembling calmness. “I think I left my radio on.”

Ginny shook her head, titian curls bobbing. “I just passed your door and I didn’t hear a thing.” She paused and looked a bit closer at Hermione’s expression. “Are you okay? You look a little funny.”

“I’m fine.” Hermione offered no further explanation and shrugged her way past the redhead.

“I was about to take Arnold out,” Ginny commented, gesturing towards the panting fluffball at her feet. “Do you want to come? You can tell me all about that creep admirer of yours. You know, the one who always wants a free donut with his coffee? I saw him in there when I went by yesterday.”

Hermione was struggling to get her key in the lock. Thank god she kept the thing in her apron. Her purse remained in the back room at the shop. “I’m going to turn in. I’ll talk to you later.” Why wouldn’t this  _ blasted  _ key get in the lock? It wasn’t that difficult.

“Oh...well okay.” Ginny had started to turn back to the stairs when she noticed something on Hermione’s arm, which was  _ still  _ trying to get the key to work. “What is that?”

“What is what?”

“That mark on your arm. It almost,” Ginny peered at her friend’s arm, pausing, “...almost looks like a handprint or something.”

Hermione started, whirling her head to observe the same spot Ginny was staring at. There was a mark. It was rapidly changing shades, turning from pink to a light scarlet, and it  _ did _ look like a handprint. She could nearly see the outline of each finger on her irritated skin. She had to say something to Ginny, her mind racing to find a suitable excuse. 

“Must have gotten it at work.” Apparently that was the best she could come up with.

Ginny raised one eyebrow, wholly unconvinced. “At work? At a coffee shop?”

“I have to go.” Hermione cut her off, finally getting her door unlocked, and ducked inside. She could hear Ginny lingering in the hallway, Arnold’s claws pattering on the floor. Eventually, she heard Ginny bid the dog to move down the stairs, and it was only then that Hermione allowed herself to let a breath out.

She could not seem to get another one in her lungs. She spun, back to the door, and sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her head hurt, but she couldn’t tell if it was still throbbing from the noise or if she just was losing it. Probably both? She gagged, and instinctually started to move towards the bathroom, half on the floor, half standing. One foot, ground. One foot, ground.  _ Move _ . Her body made it for three steps and then collapsed on the floor.

Hermione could sense nothing but the dizziness, a complementary addition to the throbbing that remained in her head. She had the vague thought that she needed water, that if she could just get a drink of water, it would all stop. Everything would go away. But her body would not cooperate with that wish, and she remained where she was, legs curling up in a fetal position as she desperately waited for the sensations to cease.

She raised a trembling hand to her temple. Maybe if she could just grab the racing thoughts out of her head, they would leave her alone. She replayed the events at the shop over and over in her brain, each time reminding herself of how utterly done for she probably was. Who was to say no one would come after her? She knew how these people operated, knew that they would come after you if you screwed them over. Hermione prided herself on keeping up with the news, and she had read far too many stories in the newspapers of such events.

She felt a scratching sensation on her cheek as her hand shifted, and pulled it down to be within her eyesight. The paper. It was still trapped in her clenched palm. Its spattered blood had stained her hand, leaving her with a design of spotted red over her life and fate lines. She dropped it as if it were laced with poison. Hermione stroked the darkening stain with the fingertips of her right hand, watching with impassive eyes. Red. Her fingertips shared the design of her left hand’s palm now. It was unnervingly garish, seeping into her skin as she rubbed her index finger against her thumb. She snatched the paper off the floor. It felt like a burning coal in her hand, something that would drop her. Hermione crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the floor as far as she could from her supine position. She hoped she never saw the damn thing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually got a new chapter up before the end of the week, a miracle! I know these have been on the shorter side, just over 1000 words, but I would like to keep up regularly updating and this is the most I can do with my current schedule. Thank you for the lovely comments that have been left so far. Every time I received the email notification, I smiled at my phone. Not being figurative, like when you send "lmao" back to a meme you cracked a small snicker at. ;) I truthfully just broke out beaming at my phone. There is nothing better for a writer than hearing that someone enjoyed the output of your brain. I hope this chapter is equally enjoyed. As always, please comment if you enjoyed or have constructive criticism, and thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter Two

Beige. A sea of beige. That was the first thing Hermione’s eyes saw as they blinked into focus. Oh. Right. Her ceiling. She was still on the floor, and her back protested at having been subjected to nothing but carpet on hardwood floor for the better part of...she glanced at the clock above her fireplace...apparently fourteen hours. The clock read 2:24, and the sun shining aggressively on her face through the window catty corner to the fireplace told her it must be pm. Exactly why was she on the floor anyway? Her brain struggled to sift through the fog of just-left sleep as she shifted to a sitting position, propping her hands in front of her. What...oh. Of course. Her eyes lit on the scrunched up ball of paper in the corner of the room, and the events of the night before came rushing back. The blood...the pops...the donuts on the floor...the man with the grey eyes. The feeling of laying on the floor in the coffee shop, the scent of blood and smoke and _death_ filling her nose. And oh god, her arm. She realized her arm still faintly ached, and Hermione began to rub the spot with her hand as she slowly climbed to her feet. _What the hell?_

Hermione didn’t budge from her apartment for three days. Technically, for the first half day after she woke on the floor at 2:24 pm, she did not budge from that room. Working at a coffee shop didn’t exactly afford her the most luxury of apartments, and so she did not have a separate kitchen. But she had a sitting room to entertain...well, no one, really, and it was not difficult to conceal a hotplate and a few cooking utensils if she had someone in the apartment. The ball of paper she had retrieved from the floor, currently residing on her side table, was burning a hole in her skull. Wherever she went, it seemed that it watched her, taunting as a reminder of events she could not escape.

Hermione’s stomach had grumbled of neglect around 10 pm that night, and she had forced herself to abandon the pattern of alternately pacing and staring out her window to the street in order to rustle up some food. The scrambled eggs she choked down arose a wish for coffee, and the pot she drank kept her awake until nearly dawn the next morning, when the caffeine finally crashed. Her body was begging her for sleep, preferably not on hardwood floors, and so she relented, finding refuge in her bedroom. Hermione curled her body into a ball under the covers. Perhaps if she became small enough, no one would ever find her. Perhaps she wouldn’t find herself.

It was on the third day of this routine that she noticed something wasn’t right. Rather, something was missing. She couldn’t place quite what it was at first. Everything vaguely valuable was still there . . . her radio, her watch, sitting on the arm of her small sofa, even her keys remained. But the side table, the side table was bare, conspicuously so. Her feet froze halfway to the window upon this observation, panic beginning to grip her throat as it came to her mind just what was missing. The ball of paper, the one with spattered blood, was gone. Hermione could only stare, the realization seeping through her mind that someone, _someone who was not her_ , had been in her apartment while she was asleep. They knew. They had to know she had been there, had _seen_ what had happened, and now they must know where she lived. She was so _screwed._

Hermione prided herself on being someone who could keep her head when it really came down to it. All she could think of as she zipped through her few rooms, gathering the bare minimum she could not leave, was that she had to keep it together. To lose it was to let her guard down, and letting her guard down meant getting caught. And getting gunned down by some lowlife was not how she was planning on leaving this earth. Only the essentials, she kept repeating to herself. Not too much, or she might look conspicuous, like she was going somewhere. One large purse only. A change of clothes, a few pieces of makeup, her keys, what money she had. She passed the small table on which she kept the hotplate, and decided one more item wouldn’t hurt. She opened the table’s drawer and added a knife to the collection in her purse.

The hallway was empty when Hermione tentatively stuck her head out her door. It appeared to be, at least. She could think only of getting out unseen, and so abandoned the concept of using the front door and headed for the back of the building. True, she would have to go through the alley going this way, but at least there was less of a chance that someone might see her leave. Or did they watch all angles of buildings when they wanted someone? She didn’t really know. The back still seemed like a better option.

Both flights of stairs yielded no human being in sight. Hermione rushed past the mailboxes, past the fireplace in the lobby, the only thing in her mind getting out that door. Almost there, she thought, you’re almost out. But the door . . . she stopped short. There was someone there, calmly leaning on the wall beside the exit. A man. He was smoking a cigarette, and he looked lost in thought.

She turned on her heel. Possibly he hadn’t even seen her.

“Miss Granger?”

She kept walking. Ignore him. You are not Miss Granger.

“Miss _Granger_.” More insistent this time. Still she kept on. Hermione could hear footsteps behind her. Should she run? He obviously knew her by sight, but maybe it was entirely unrelated to the current state of her life. No. What respectable man stayed by the rear exit of a building waiting for a woman like that?

As her mind tried to reason this out, a hand touched her shoulder. She jerked away, then spun to face the person to whom it belonged. Not the man with the grey eyes. He looked determined, face set but trying to appear openly friendly if the crinkles by his eyes were any indication. She needed to play this off.

Taking a full step back from him, she drew her shoulders back.

“Who the hell are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, I know. I'm sorry. And no Draco! He'll be back, I promise. As you've probably noticed from the space between updates, I haven't exactly kept up with the schedule I wanted to. I will endeavor to get the next chapter up a bit quicker than this one was.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over three months later (!!!) here I am again. I haven't much of an excuse for that, except the general craziness of life that we are all going through this year. In my defense, my laptop did decide its life had concluded, and I had to get a new one which was a whole saga that no one wants to hear. In any event, I am not going to promise regular updates again since I doubt I will be able to keep that promise, but I hope such a multiple month gap like this will not occur again. On to the chapter! Hope anyone still reading enjoys, and thank you. <3

He didn’t answer right away. The man’s eyes glanced behind her before settling back on her face.

“You are Miss Granger, aren’t you?”

Don’t answer, don’t answer. “I asked who you are, not the other way around.”

The man laughed a bit. “I think that’s a yes. My name is Longbottom. Neville Longbottom.”

Hermione refused to move. “Okay?” One eyebrow raised itself, daring Longbottom to offer more information than a name.

“I know who you are, Miss Granger,” Neville continued. “For one thing, you deflected the question. For another, I know your apartment is in this building.”

Her eyebrow raised even higher.

“And I’ve seen you,” he concluded. “I know you’re missing something.”

Panic. Panic in overdrive. “I have to go,” she replied, trying to keep her voice even. “I have an appointment and I’m late already.”

“You don’t have any appointments. You haven’t left your apartment since four nights ago.”

She was backing away now, her purse held in front of her. A hell lot of good that would do.

“I . . .” No words came out. There was little point in talking her way out of this when there was no chance of denying her identity.

Neville took a step closer to her. “I am not trying to threaten you, Miss Granger. I’m not who you think.”

“You haven’t exactly told me who you are.” It came out rushed, a note of anger under the panic.

“I’m Neville Longbottom.”   
She surprised herself by laughing. “Yes, I got that. And it, in a great surprise to everyone, tells me absolutely nothing.”

“I am- I’m not with . . . them. That’s all I can tell you here.”

Hermione brought her purse up a bit higher. “Do you think I’m stupid? I’ve never laid eyes on you in my life, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly in a place where I want to trust random men right now.”

“I understand. I can’t do anything but ask you to temporarily take a chance,” Neville put his hands up as he said this. “I am armed, but in the interest of clarity, it’s right here.” He patted his side, right under the breast pocket on his jacket.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It should. You were about to go running about with a mark on your back and nothing to defend yourself with.”

“That’s what you think.” Hermione drew her shoulders back even farther, remembering the knife she had slipped into her purse.

Neville sighed. “Look, we can’t talk here. Please come with me. I won’t get near you.”

She weighed her options. It was true she had little notion of where exactly she was going to go after she got out of the building. But she also had no idea who this man,  _ Neville Longbottom _ , was, really. “How do I know you aren’t trying to get me out of the way to kill me?”

“If I was who you think I am, I would have shot you already. They rarely care if their business invades public places.” He seemed exasperated.   
To be fair, Hermione supposed the man had a point. Unless he wanted to play games, there was no reason he shouldn’t shoot her dead in the middle of the lobby. They had not seemed very concerned about the locale when that couple got knocked off before they ever got to sip their coffee. 

“Fine.” She heard him heave a sigh of relief. “But don’t you come near me, Mr. Longbottom” she added. “I’ll knock your lights out.”

He offered a nod of assurance. “You have my word.”

* * *

Outside the building, Neville gestured her towards a red car parked by the sidewalk. He opened the passenger door for her and she reluctantly slid into the seat as he walked around to take the driver’s seat.

“I’m waiting,” she said as he eased the vehicle into traffic. “I would love to hear your explanation of why you’re so trustworthy at any time.”

He kept his eyes on the road, studiously ignoring her. Weird. She opened the latch on her purse and began feeling for the knife. Maybe already having a hold on it would make her feel better.

“. . . Did they suffer?”

Hermione’s head snapped towards him. “What?”

“Did they suffer? It’s a yes or no question.”

“Who are you talking about?” She moved her gaze back to the car in front of them.

“You’re not a stupid woman, Miss Granger. You know who I’m talking about.” His voice broke on the last word.

Her eyes remained on the car in front. Cream colored, with silver detailing. Was that a scratch on the lower bumper? A shame, she thought, on such a new and shiny model. Why, the sheen still showed on the curves, something that just started to go as-

“ _ Please _ .”

She had to answer. “I don’t think so. It was too fast.” Hermione heard a breath release from the man sitting next to her.

“Thank you.”

She glanced at him, watching his face relax. “Why?”

“I have a . . . personal interest.” Neville looked at her expression, quickly becoming suspicious. “They were my parents.”

“Oh.” Hermione didn’t have a response to that. There was not really anything appropriate to say. Oh, I’m so sorry, I watched your parents get gunned down in cold blood? Sorry I couldn’t do anything? Hope you feel better? She settled for, “I’m sorry.”

He nodded his acknowledgement.

She watched the city streets speed by as the car traveled up Wilshire Boulevard, shops people blurring into one image as her eyes grew tired of the effort. It was comforting though. Each of those people’s normal lives continued to go on, even if hers did not. Did they think the same of her as they passably noticed the red blur moving past? Or was she the only one who bothered to place that thought on another individual they would never know? She was jerked out of her thoughts by the sound of Longbottom speaking again.

“You undoubtedly noticed something missing from your apartment. A paper.”

Hermione refused to move her eyes from the safer spot of the landscape outside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I have it.”

Calm. Remain calm. Her eyebrows furrowed at nothing in particular, still refusing to offer her companion the benefit of eye contact. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about, but am I to understand that you are telling me you broke into my apartment?”

“You have my sincere apologies. I had to make sure that my information was correct before I could even consider approaching you.”

“Suppose I had caught you?”

Neville glanced at her. “Well, did you?”

Hermione scowled. “No. But there is every chance I could have.”

“That is irrelevant at this point, Miss Granger,” he continued. “There was no point in my involving someone who had no idea of- well, recent events, if I had been informed incorrectly.”

“Well, lucky me.”

Neville pointedly ignored her last remark, continuing smoothly. “We need your help. Their control over the city is getting stronger every week, and with you, we have a chance to infiltrate them.” Another glance. “If you’ll help, that is.”

“Help you?” She couldn’t help it. It was such an absurd suggestion that she finally tore her eyes from the street and fixed them on the man sitting next to her. “Why in the hell would I help you with anything? I still don’t know who you are and,” she held up a finger, “if you inform me that you are Neville Longbottom and  _ that’s all you can tell me _ , I swear I’ll jump out of this car right here.” Longbottom shut his mouth, evidently having planned to do just that. “I don’t even know how you know where I work, or  _ did  _ work until I saw whatever I saw. You’ll excuse me if I’m not big on trusting people right now.” Hermione concluded her rant with a quite final folding of her arms across her chest.

Longbottom sighed and tried again. “I understand your apprehensions, Miss Granger.” He took one hand off the wheel to reach into his jacket, and she visibly started. “No, no it’s not that.” Neville slowly withdrew his hand to exhibit a cigarette between his fingers.

Hermione removed her shaking hand from the door handle, where it had been a moment prior, ready to open a possibility to freedom and an escape from presumed gunshots.

“Sorry.” He looked sheepish, she had to admit that. “Didn’t think that out very well.”

“As I was saying,” Longbottom lit his cigarette, “we have never had this kind of opportunity before. They don’t leave witnesses, no loose ends. It is because of that we haven’t been able to even get a mere step towards tearing them down.”

Hermione shifted in her seat. What was she then? A loose end? “They? They...meaning, Voldemort.” It was a statement, not a question.

Longbottom started, taking the moment to snuff out his cigarette in the ashtray and collect his expression. “. . .Yes.” Hermione watched as his gaze, switching between her face and the road, shifted from expectancy to a hardened wariness.“Who told you?”

She held eye contact, chin high. “Your mother.”

He set his gaze firmly on the road, speaking no more.

* * *

Neville pulled to the side of the road fifteen minutes later, in front of an office building that looked as if it had seen better days. Hermione remained distinctly uncomfortable, shooting the man a suspicious look that he knew he must notice, and really, he was meant to notice, every few moments. But he acted the part of a perfect gentleman, opened the car door for her, and gestured for her to continue up the walk to enter the building. 

“So, feel free to let me know what we’re doing here at any time.”

“I need you to meet some people,” Neville responded. “They will be able to tell you more than I can.”

More cagey answers. The discomfort Hermione had felt for the last half hour grew to a prickle on her arms. But following Neville Longbottom seemed as good an option as any right now, and there was little else she could do at this point. She had no car, no apartment apparently either, and was about two seconds away from screaming into the abyss regarding how much all of this was hurting her brain. She refrained, however, and continued on into the building. Neville headed for the first door on the right in the lobby, set about halfway down the wall, and she followed.

“One moment, Miss Granger.” He opened the door and stepped inside. His speech was muffled through the now half-closed door, but she made out “...have her...need to explain…” and then nothing more. A few moments later, the door opened fully again, and Neville waved her into the room.   
It was decorated in a cluttered sort of way, but the kind of clutter in which you could tell the owner had an organization amongst the contents. A small, middle-aged woman was seated at the large desk which had center stage in the office, and beside her was a blonde girl who immediately smiled at Hermione as they made eye contact. And seated beside the blonde was…“ _ Ron _ ?”

A redheaded man stood and put up both hands towards her in a show of innocence, eyes pleading for understanding. There was a time she might have halted at that sight alone, but at that moment, Hermione really didn’t care.

“Ronald Weasley, what the hell is going on here?”


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally months later, I know. My life is a mess, I have no excuse. Thank you to those who left kudos and comments in the interim. I appreciate it more than you know.

“Hermione, please calm down. I thought it would be best if I was here for this.”

“Here for _what_ , exactly? What did you get yourself involved in now?”

Ron winced. “I wouldn’t say I’m always getting _involved_ in something, Hermione, I mean-”

“Oh yes you are, but I think that-”

“I really am not and-”

The woman at the desk rose and all eyes in the room immediately turned to her. “That is quite enough, Mr. Weasley,” she said, hands folding in front of her with the sort of quiet elegance that one could not help but pay attention to. Her eyes settled on Hermione, who was currently eyeing her observer with a rather exasperated air. The woman, clearly unfazed, wore her dark hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, not bothering to select a style that might have hidden the grey streaks that decorated what would have otherwise uninterrupted obsidian.

“Miss Granger. Thank you for joining us.”

“No need to thank me; believe me, it wasn’t my idea,” she replied, with a pointed look at Longbottom.

“Nevertheless. I appreciate your presence.” She moved around the desk, never breaking eye contact with Hermione. “I am Minerva McGonagall, assistant to Albus Dumbledore, the-”

“District attorney.” Hermione cocked her head.

“You know who he is.” McGonagall nodded.

Hermione shrugged. “I read.”

“You are correct, Miss Granger. Mr. Dumbledore is the district attorney, and as I stated, I am his assistant, making me the assistant DA.” She perched on the front of the desk, crossing her legs. “You know, your being here was quite a lucky break for us. We have not ever been able to get a Voldemort witness in the flesh.”

“In the flesh?” Hermione had a creeping suspicion of her implication. “As opposed to what?”

Ron broke in before McGonagall could answer. “Voldemort witnesses don’t exist, Hermione. Anyone who has the misfortune of...well, witnessing anything that group doesn’t want you to see, usually ends up in the city morgue.”

McGonagall put up a hand. “That will do, Mr. Weasley. There’s no point in frightening the poor girl before she’s even been told why she is here.”

Hermione selected a chair opposite Ron and sank into it, sitting back with her arms crossed. “I think I have been quite frightened enough over the past few days, Miss McGonagall. Suppose you proceed with what you have to say.”

“I agree with your approach to efficiency, Miss Granger. What you witnessed was the silencing of a quite valuable pair of people. The Longbottoms..” she paused to gesture to Neville, fidgeting next to the desk, “...were quite special to us. They were good at acquiring intel, of course, but this loss was a bit more personal.”

“You’ve still lost me.” Hermione broke in. “I am perfectly aware that Mr. Longbottom’s parents are dead, since, in case you forgot, I was there. What I am not aware of is what exactly they did to warrant being shot in my coffee shop.” She briefly regretted that last bit, watching Neville’s carefully composed face immediately crumple. Perhaps it could have been said a bit more tactfully, an opinion clearly shared by the serene woman sitting in front of her.

“Would you like to excuse yourself from the rest of this, Mr. Longbottom?” McGonagall asked. “I don’t believe your presence to be essential to the rest of this. Miss Lovegood, if you would accompany him?” She motioned to the blonde girl who said nothing but offered Hermione an encouraging look before leaving her chair.

Neville, nodding and without bothering to utter a word, moved for the door, waiting for the girl to exit before him and then shutting it quietly behind them both.

A beat passed, before Ron spoke. “Nice going, Hermione.”

Hermione’s head immediately swiveled from where her eyes had been carefully counting the wood seams in the ceiling to her ginger friend, eyes hassled.

“I’m the one who got dragged here by a perfect stranger, Ronald. I have absolutely no time for this and-”

McGonagall, perhaps slightly less serene than she had appeared a minute prior, rose from her position on the desk to step between the two. “Enough bickering. Mr. Weasley, I will thank you to cease speaking unless I request you do so.” She turned to Hermione. “And as for you, Miss Granger, let me educate you briefly on your involvement here. Mr. Dumbledore and I have been working for years to try and get Voldemort and his men under control. They are far out of control and very nearly have a chokehold on this entire town.”

Ron, adhering to his directive, simply added his opinion with an aggressively agreeing nod.

“As Mr. Weasley was so kind to bring to your attention earlier, there is no such thing as a witness to one of Voldemort’s jobs.” McGonagall began walking, pacing between the two chairs. “That makes it markedly difficult- no, impossible, to have any real legal hold on the man. There is no evidence to discourage his power.”

Hermione clasped her hands in her lap, willing them to stop the tingly shaking.

“And that is where you come in, Miss Granger.” The assistant DA paused her stride in front of her seat, opening her hands in front of her. “You, for all intents and purposes, do not exist. That makes you wholly invaluable to our cause.”

Hermione inhaled. “I’m going to pretend I am not hearing any of this right now if you don’t mind, Miss McGonagall. I might not be the assistant district attorney but I would be utterly stupid to not see where this little speech is going.”

“We need you to help us identify the men who murdered the Longbottoms.” McGonagall stated, undaunted.

“You want me to-” Hermione blinked. Once. Twice. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that? I have no idea where these people are or-”

McGonagall sighed, continuing to observe the rambling girl and waiting for her to put the pieces together.

“-oh. _Oh._ ” Hermione shook her head. “You’re insane. You think I’m going to join your little group of...secret... _spies, agents_ , whatever the hell you’re calling them?” Her voice raised in pitch with each descriptor. “May I remind you what happened to the last ones you apparently engaged?”

She rose from her seat, hands now painfully clasped in front of her. “They’re _dead_ . They are both _dead_ and their blood is splattered across the counter I serve coffee on! And I probably would be too except for-”

“Except for what, Miss Granger?” McGonagall supplied.

“Never mind.” Hermione’s voice had lowered in pitch but not in venom, each word stabbing the silence of the office. “I’m not interested.”

“I believe I can make it worth your while.” The tone was hopeful but the expression was assessing.

“I doubt it.” Hermione crossed her arms, making to leave the room. “I want to go home.”

“Where? Back to your apartment?” McGonagall raised one eyebrow. “If we could find you, so could someone else.”

Hermione paused, pivoting on her heel to view the woman again. “So what are you going to do for me?”

“We will conveniently leak the details of a young woman similar to your physical description who is already...indisposed.” She paused for a moment, brow furrowed. “There is no reason Voldemort should ever discover your identity and your presence at the scene. For all intents and purposes, you no longer exist.”

“And if I say no?” Hermione refused to break eye contact.

“It is entirely likely your existence will be found out.”

Hermione continued to stare, daring her to finish what was implied.

But it was Ron who completed what she was thinking. “I think you already know what happens to people who witness Voldemort hits, Hermione,” he offered softly, and McGonagall did not quiet him this time. “Like I said, they just don’t exist.”

The tingly shaking was back. Hermione took a moment to collect her scattered thoughts and drew each hand into a fist by her sides. “So just to be clear, you’re blackmailing me. With my life.”

McGonagall paused, one eyebrow raised and hands folded in front of her. At least she had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed, or more so ashamed, Hermione thought. To her annoyance, however, the woman’s composure did not slip and she did not deny the accusation.

“Yes. I am not proud of the nature of it, but we need your help on this, Miss Granger. I have been instructed to guarantee your cooperation.”

Hermione felt a wave of revulsion wash over her, temporarily replacing the utter fear that had taken up permanent residence in her body.

“That’s a hell of a way to make friends, Miss...McGonagall, was it?” It was completely untrue that the woman’s name had escaped her brain for even a moment, but she had to establish some type of control over this situation, however trifling.

McGonagall was completely aware of this little act yet did little to indicate as such, the only evidence of it being the barely audible sigh that escaped her before she spoke again. “I agree, but it was out of my hands.” She crossed the space in front of the desk, retaking her seat behind it. “Unfortunately, I need you to understand that this undertaking is much bigger than either of us and it is not merely myself that is in control of these decisions. We are trying to put a roadblock before a man that does not bother to use the typical roads, in a manner of speaking, and that is not an easy task.”

Hermione frowned, listening and watching the world around her slowly drain of color. There simply was no going back. Should she step out that door and pass Mr. Longbottom, who was surely still waiting in the hall, she was completely and fearfully on her own. Being alone was nothing new, but having no knowledge of what awaited her was, and it frightened her.

“It seems I have little option,” Hermione finally uttered, hearing the words as if they came from another voice. “I will help.”

McGonagall smiled warmly at her. It was small, but still the first appearance of the gesture since Hermione had talked to these people. She would take it.


End file.
